One Good Reason
by A Kiss Before Dying
Summary: Silas's murder within the Church of Saint Sulpice caused an uproar within the late nun's family, and now Sister Sandrine's adopted granddaughter vows to destroy the man who took Sandrine's life. Post-book, Silas lives. HIATUS - SEE PROFILE


**DISCLAIMER: **All characters, plots, and place descriptions—ones not of my own design—are derived from Dan Brown's novel. Only my OC, Marie, and the plotline I'm still struggling to come up with, belong to me. Nothing else.

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**Prologue: Beginning of the End**

A cool September breeze whistled through the branches of the oak trees, sending leaves of every color to blow through the quiet of the small memorial park. The sun was at its peak, but clouds subdued its brilliance, casting only feeble rays of light to dance upon the spectacular, French-made headstones that dotted the landscape.

The cemetery was quite empty, for a Sunday afternoon, occupied merely by the lone tourist or two, come to admire the Gothic appeal of the grave markers, or simply to gaze at the glimmering Eiffel Tower that was the background of the scenery.

Towards the center of the gravesite, however, nestled within a clustered group of trees already stripped of their colorful decorations, stood a solitary grave marker, so different from the rest.

A concrete angel resided over the freshly dug grave of a forgotten soul; the statue had one hand resting gently over its heart, eyes closed and wings unfurled magnificently as its other hand pointed gracefully toward the heavens.

A shadow was cast over the watchful angel as someone stepped forward to admire the grave marker. The wind rustled the short, sandy colored curls from a young woman's calm emerald eyes, closed for the moment in silent prayer. Her hands were crossed gently in front of her, and between her laced fingers rested a single white rose.

They were always _grand-mère's_ favorite.

When she fluttered her eyes open, her lashes were thick with tears. Kneeling down, she placed the rose across the freshly dug dirt, and ran her fingertips gently along the name carved elegantly into the angel's base.

It read the name of Sister Sandrine Bieil.

The French police force discovered her body the morning after her murder. She was found on her bed, hands folded neatly atop her chest; at first, she appeared to be in a peaceful slumber. Until, that is, the police noticed the dried blood coating the side of her face, and the blow that had fatally connected to her head.

They found a large, oval-shaped stone tablet resting on the floor beside the nun's bed, also covered with blood; upon its base was carved the words _'Job 38:11.' _The police were not aware of what the seemingly out-of-place Bible verse symbolized, but the murder weapon then became apparent.

The killer must have positioned her to appear asleep, the police explained, so that, hopefully, no one would notice the nun to be dead. Where the stone block came into play remained a mystery, until the police searched the rest of the church.

Towards the right of the altar and under the statue of a giant Egyptian obelisk, residing along the primary Rose line, tiles had been torn out of the ground to reveal a gaping hole in the base of the church. Nothing was in there, of course, but the police guessed – and guessed correctly – that the killer had entered the church of Saint-Sulpice that night in search of whatever had once resided in the ground beneath the Rose line.

They knew nothing more than the basics; the killer's motive, and his true intents on entering the church of Saint-Sulpice that night remained a true enigma to the French police.

The rest, she resolved, was up to her to find out.

"_Grand-__mère_ Bieil," Marie whispered harshly, clenching her hands together tightly as she stood upright once more, "I swear… by whatever Gods may be watching over you now… that I will find your killer! I will find him… and by the Gods, I will destroy him!"

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Miles away, the sky opened up over Kensington Gardens, pouring buckets of water down upon the small, isolated courtyard.

Nestled in a quiet hollow, quite out of sight from the rest of the world, lay a body.

Silas was quivering with unbearable pain as he wrapped his arms around his shoulders, trying to shield off the onslaught of rain as he struggled to crawl to shelter. From a bullet wound in his chest, blood slowly dripped onto the grass beneath him, smearing his robes and mixing with splattered grime and mud.

_Pain is good._

The phrase he had taught himself to speak every time the lashes of his own whip ripped into his back echoed faintly in his mind as Silas struggled in vain to fight off the creeping coldness that was slowly beginning to settle over his body. He could feel his soul begin to tug away, to drift aimlessly through the mist surrounding him, fighting its way to the heavens.

With a weak moan, the albino's snow-kissed fingers scrabbled at the air, trying in vain to reach out for something palpable, something he could hold onto: faith, God, anything that could carry him through his suffering. Finding nothing, they dropped limp onto his chest a moment later.

_God is dead._

Silas closed his eyes for what he felt was the final time. This pain was simply too great.

_Aringarosa was right... I am an angel..._

However, when the French police came across the soaked, bloodied, and half-nude body of the hulking albino nestled in the brush of the Gardens several minutes later, it seemed as if Silas—or someone else—had found something to hold onto.


End file.
